A birthday post necessitates itself as always:
I resist as much as I can; however, my proclivity for rumination is clear.
Frankly, this year has been a failure. I feel distant — due to Covid — from my two best friends (who are writers as well, and so we share a natural homebody tendency followed by bursts of bar hopping ), and my boyfriend — because there is only a certain level of contact that I can endure before I shut down —, and my writing…because one can see that it has been an adventure.
Still, as much as I try to be depressed, and melancholic, I find that I feel hopeful.
Which is worrisome in, and of itself. I am not a very hopeful person. Inspired by hope? Yes. Invigorated by hope? Indeed. I, nevertheless, am not an intrinsically hopeful person. So, the paranoid side who has seen too many films now knows this is the part when I suffer a horrid accident.
Which if I do……totally called it.
If I do not, then, turns out that I am paranoid.
Still, I am pensive about that which the year shall bring, and that which the year has broughten.
I have fallen in love with some new books, so expect to see that, and I have been preparing future posts for a regular schedule, so it may seems that I have faded: I have not. Merely, I lurk in the silver moonshine gaining my strength.